


One Day

by ThePerk42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5558699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePerk42/pseuds/ThePerk42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Remus Lupin wakes up on Nov. 1, 1981 to find Sirius Black missing from his bed, he is reminded of a day – long ago, and forgotten – from his youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally published on FFN in 2011. I'm cleaning up/deleting that account, so I've spruced this up to repost here. Voila!

At the age of five, the summer after he was first bitten, Remus Lupin's parents took their only child to the beach. Looking back on that day, Remus can see the blatant attempt to encourage their pragmatic and serious son to lighten up a little bit. At the time, he felt a deep seated consternation at being taken from his comfortable home for a long and winding road trip in a too stuffy, too old car, ending in a strange place where the child had no desire to be. Remus' father had always served as the much need comic relief in their family, and in his later years, Remus found himself pulled to the Marauders because they reminded him so much of his late father. The man attempted to joke and play with Remus when they first arrived at the beach, but other things caught the young man's attention.

Remus' memories of the day at the beach are separated by forgotten chunks of time – age and life in general make us all more forgetful than we would like to admit to ourselves and to others. But he remembers arriving at the busy beach, watching other children racing around on the damp and unstable sand, naked from the waist up, skin unblemished by scars and naïve to the darkness of the world around them. At his young age, Remus was not terribly marred from his short time being a werewolf, but the mark on his lower back where he had first been bitten would have likely been cause enough for other parents to call the authorities and so his parents bade him to keep his shirt on.

He remembers his mother smearing oily, reeking sunscreen on his face and his father groaning in appreciation as he popped open an ale, reclining on a towel in the sunshine. He remembers his mother handing him a pail and looking a little guilty when she told him to ask the other children to play. He remembers, with a reluctant sort of childlike shame, how the other children had rebuffed him; it was as though they knew that circumstance had made a societal outcast of Remus without knowing what had been done to the boy, or why. Not wanting to disturb his mother – who was sun bathing with her eyes closed – or his father – who was already on his second drink – Remus went to the water, seeking the embracing comfort of the waves. He recalls trying the water with the ball and heel of his foot and then part of his memory is gone – as if it has been erased or taken from him. The next thing that Remus can remember is water rushing around his small body, lifting him from the squelching sand and spinning his body like a bath toy, forgotten in the draining tub.

Remus remembers the blinding panic that swelled in his abdomen, his arms flailing in the overindulgent wave; grasping, looking for anything to serve as a handhold. He recalls his eyes snapping open, refusing to close, even with the pain of water stinging them. His lungs burnt as he refused to gasp for breath and there was the dim awareness of a child who didn't quite understand the finality of death, but who feared it none the less. And Remus remembers his mother's arms, pulling him from the water, dragging him to the shore and holding him in her lap, crying far too loudly to be decent. He remembers now how elated she was that he hadn't drowned and how she'd apologized over and over again. And how when he'd asked never to go back to the beach, she had said, "Of course, of course, of course."

When Remus wakes on November 1, 1981 and Sirius isn't in bed, he calls out for his friend. When he hears no answer, a cold rush fills his blood, because usually when Sirius isn't home in the morning it means he's gone out and fucked some bint in an attempt to prove his heterosexuality to himself, James, and most importantly: to his ignorant lover, Remus. Remus cracks his knuckles and decides not to mistrust Sirius today, instead chooses to wait, drink some tea, and see if he comes home. He pulls a cardigan on over his pyjamas to ward off the cold seeping into the flat – there never is enough to pay all of the bills and this month, he stupidly chose water over heat – and stumbles into the kitchen, thinking he might floo Lily and see if she wants to do something. It's been a while since he's seen her or Harry.

When he picks the teapot up off the stove, and moves to fill it, he sees a sticky note attached to it – they're one of Sirius' favorite Muggle inventions ("No sticking charms needed, Moony!") – and a hastily scrawled note, which confuses him more than anything. _It wasn't me. Please…forgive me._ He crumples the note in his fist but shoves it into the sagging pocket of his cardigan and fills the teapot, ignoring the tap as it chugs and splutters on the frozen water. He turns on the stove and lights it with a small spark from his wand, sets the kettle on and sits at the kitchen table to wait. It's not long before an owl is tapping on his window with the Prophet – Sirius paid for it and it was one of the things that Remus took. He doesn't like owing people, but he hates not knowing what is happening. He takes the paper and unfurls it, smashes into the table and yelps in pain when he sees Sirius' name on the front page.

Remus drops the paper to the table top, hands landing palm down on the fresh ink declaring his lover as a murderer. He feels a hot rush of something – he's not sure if it's relief or shame or a desperate sadness that fills him – as he crumples the Prophet in his hands, just like Sirius' note and throws it at the stove. The ball of paper doesn't land close enough to the kettle to set fire and so he _Incendio_ s it with his wand and lets out a harsh bark of laughter, before clutching at his chest and falling against the counter top. _It wasn't me._ He smashes his fist into the cupboard door and it falls off of its rusting hinges, clatters loudly to the floor. Remus gasps for air and there's a thumping from under him – his downstairs neighbors, angry at the early morning racket. He feels like he's drowning again, he's never felt this lost in his life. He pulls at his cardigan and flails, trying to break the surface of the crashing waves so that he can breathe. _Please…forgive me_.

But his mother isn't here to save him; there are no hands to drag him to shore. There is no one sobbing except for him, there is no one to tell him he is still loved. And there is no one to promise that he will never have to come back to this place.


End file.
